


Liquid Heat

by kore_rising



Series: Grace [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kore_rising/pseuds/kore_rising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title: Liquid Heat<br/>Rating: NC-17/M for drink, sex and tango<br/>Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur<br/>Notes/Warnings: For <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/17669.html?thread=36736773#t36736773">this</a> prompt at <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_inception_kink"><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/"><b>inception_kink</b></a></span></p><p>The characters, setting and story of <em>Inception</em> are the property of Christopher Nolan and no cash is being made from this story.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Liquid Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Liquid Heat  
> Rating: NC-17/M for drink, sex and tango  
> Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur  
> Notes/Warnings: For [this](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/17669.html?thread=36736773#t36736773) prompt at [](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/profile)[**inception_kink**](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/)
> 
> The characters, setting and story of _Inception_ are the property of Christopher Nolan and no cash is being made from this story.

Palermo at night is hot; thick, damp, suffocating hot that moulds clothes to your body in under ten minutes while the incessant rush of warm rain fills the air. The moisture renders Ariadne's hair into fine curls and Arthur's shiny over the matte coat of pomade he uses to keep his tidy. Everything is sticky, bed clothes, cushions, skin, and relief from it is almost impossible without showering six or seven times a day. Ariadne found herself giving up on anything but thin cotton shift dresses that would let her skin, her overheated, prickling skin, breathe while she watched Arthur drop down a notch to his work casual, something that involved losing his tie, vest and sometimes even his jacket, which struck her as quite possibly amounting to sacrilegious for him.

For their first job as a freelance team it's been relatively straight forward. Shockingly so, in fact. No hulking security men or unexpected militarised subconsciousness came looming out of either the real or dream world. Arthur took on being the lead extractor like a second skin and they shifted through the lines of her imagined world with a fluid ease and grace that belies their relative inexperience working together. Despite her bold acceptance of his offer to work with him when he came back to Paris for her, Ariadne found herself wondering in the days leading up to their first heist if they could actually make this work. For all their subsequent practice and her surface bravado it was still a sharp, cold thrill to be _here_ , doing _this_ ; a dizzying collision of wonder and fear that would override the hard grounding in weaponry and self defence she had schooled herself in long before he returned. That he trusted her enough to watch his back while he covered hers, an honour she was sure he bestowed on few and returned so hard to even less.

 Admittedly in the weeks before hand he taken the time to forge her skills from their raw state to a sharper edge, simulations in dreams and exercises in the real world that would leave her panting,  every muscle molten and screaming from being pummelled and reshaped, only for him to smile slightly and order : "Again."

Her breath would drag in, her spine straighten, lengthen up to re-poise her limbs into a combat stance, raise her gun or her fists, and offer a crisp "Ready." in return. He was never easy on her, and for that she couldn't help but be grateful. "Show me everything."  She had insisted that afternoon in the architecture library. "Teach me everything. I need to know."  So he had obliged, their bodies synchronising into a rhythm that beat across their days and nights, limbs shifting through space as if controlled by one mind; their minds push pulling to mesh strong over weak, practical to creative, fury to softness; where he fell she rose and where she stumbled he strode. From bed to workspace they clashed, grappled then adapted, reformed into new shapes and emerged to find a new direction that could neither had anticipated. He would sink into her as she came up to engulf him, hands knotted over each other as they twisted and splayed into the beds they shared, lips opening across lips as wordshapes breathed back and forth. French curses, English endearments, strings of sounds like pearls or hard, guttural pebbles going from mind to mouth and reversing, a tide that swept in and dragged out as tongue laved across tongue and teeth snapped and grazed. 

  
\---

The night after the job was done they ended up in a tiny bar in San Telmo, drinking Caipirinhas despite the fact this is Argentina, not Brazil. Mouthfuls of sweet sharp ice course through Ariadne in cold waves every time she swallows until the room is blurring into a soft edged cavern of low lights, chattering voices and the hum of the ceiling fans drowsing above their heads. It feels almost like it should be a dream, except so many things are coming out of the warm haze with sharp clarity: the cool glass in her hand sending drops of condensation over her palm; the tang of lime and grit of sugar on her tongue;  the beads of sweat between her breasts; the crisp ruffle of her skirt; the colour of Arthur's eyes as he laughs with her, throwing back his drinks like water until he's flushed and undone like she's never seen him, fingers idling over her skin in a possessive gesture louder than anything he's ever said. His shirt glows white in the dim room, burning back like a candle flame, the v of skin where he's wrenched back his top buttons rich with a faint tan that he's gained in their days here. He smells of heated body and cachaça, pomade and aftershave as he leans in and puts a wet kiss over her ear that makes him snort with hilarity when she recoils, batting at him as he tries to crowd in again.

The night unspools in a cloud of tiny lights and cold, cold drinks, until he takes her hand and the bottle of bourbon he's snagged in the other, drags her from her bar stool and insists that they have to tango, "...being that this is the spiritual birthplace of the dance which reflects both the social and sexual mores of Argentina."  Which makes her laugh all over again, since even slightly drunk Arthur cannot help but be the one man walking encyclopaedia.

"I can't tango." Ariadne insists as they walk lazily into the street, side glued to side, arms braced over backs. "Can you?"  
"Not only can I," his smile is enormous, "but I can teach you too."  
"Tipsy, overheated and high on a job well done?" She counters as he shoves the bottle in her backpack.  
"Even then." He stops and turns her on the spot so they're face to face, catching her when she wobbles slightly on the cobbles. The street is lined with cafes, music spilling out as inside couples bend and twist around each other, but they are outside, in the dim light with people meandering by. She can see those other dancers, faces in a fierce looks of controlled ecstasy and it strikes her suddenly that it's an extremely blatant vertical expression of a horizontal act, being pulled in the current of the other person's body around yours.

Arthur taps her hip. "Pay attention, please." He adopts a faintly pedantic tone as her attention goes back to him. "A tango embrace is like a hug." He pulls her close, one hand looping over her hip , greedy fingers closing on her dress, waiting patiently until she copies him, her hand closing on his ass and slapping it for good measure with a cheeky grin. He's solid up against her and she feels like she's turning liquid in the heat , from the drink and from being face to collarbones with him (wedge heeled sandals saving her from being smothered in his ribcage and smearing his shirt with her flirtatious, glossed lips.) "Chest to chest," he insists as her breasts press into him, "not pelvis to pelvis." He picks up her other hand and rolls against her. "Now, left foot forwards," She steps into him, feeling him shift forwards so his leg brushes against her knee as their feet stop side by side. "Now back," he says gently, "and right."

The world slows down as they go, Arthur's voice spirit warmed in her ear as he guides her through a walk, then into a sway as people go by, clapping and whistling as they somehow stumble then slide into something approaching a tango. His hips press into her, making fluid circles that bend her around him like the better dancers in the cafes; she loses her footing and somehow makes a dip that has him dropping with her as her leg stretches behind them;  it should be clumsy and rather stupid, she thinks, but they somehow they are coming past it into synch again. Arthur's eyes don't leave her as she reshapes around him, the dark flicker of amusement meeting a spark of desire as his face wears his usual wry smile. "Good," he whispers, "I think you're a natural. Is there anything you can't learn?"  
"I've had good teachers." She meets him with a smile of her own. "Perhaps it's time I taught you something new instead." He turns, body to body with her, one curve forming where two spines arch.  
"What did you have in mind? A new skill? A new language, maybe?" She steps out, pulling him to her side, feeling bold and hot blooded all of a sudden.  
"Maybe." They rejoin and are back face to face. "I do have a talented tongue."   
"Oh really?" The flirting is making him raise his brows with an arch look. "Well then, I am lucky to accept such a teacher. Perhaps we should go back to the apartment and begin." His hand on her hip clenches around her and pulls her closer. He's sweating, their clothes are damp, every muscle is firm against her and as she nestles her body to his his erection jumps against her like a hot coal.  
"Eager. I like it." Her nipples are jutting into him, the close proximity and his obvious desire hitting her bloodstream like neat vodka. "A good student always thirsts for knowledge." He bends forward, taking her backwards and his face is mere millimetres from hers when he stops, the smile that the devil would pay for to tempt souls into happy eternal damnation directed straight at her. "I will always drink deeply from your cup. Of knowledge." He adds sneakily, as if she was in any doubt what he really means.

A few passersby are cheering them, obviously seeing their dance at an end, but she can hardly hear them. Arthur's breathing is a few degrees over normal and his hands are shifting restlessly across her back. "Then lets go back and see what you can swallow."  Ariadne hears herself stumble over the words as he laughs again, righting her and kissing her to the whoops of their spectators.

\---

They stumble into the apartment in a tangle of limbs and mouths colliding. Ariadne can feel the shape of Arthur's tipsy smile over her mouth as he half leads, half carries her across the floor to the bed. The air is fever hot, the air conditioning barely making a dent in the subtropical heat. Arthur's breath is heaving now, his growls and chuckles thick and rasping as they escape his mouth. When they collapse he's sprawling over her as if they're going to melt and fuse together at every point that matters, skin to skin, blood to blood, nerve to nerve.

"Ready for your lesson?" She forces the words out as he wriggles his hips over her with a lascivious slowness.   
"For you ma'am? Always." His voice shivers her skin. "Show me what you can do with that talented tongue of yours."   
"Sit up then." Ariadne aims for her classroom tone, a short, crisp, precise snap of a voice that falls short due to the alcohol in her veins. He moves back obediently, watching as she gropes in her dropped back pack, fingers closing on the bottle he wedged there, then crossing her legs as she sits up. "Across my lap. Face up, Arthur." She adds when he opens his mouth to ask what is doubtless a slightly less than serious question. "Put your head on my knee." 

When he's draped over her he looks up with a filthy grin. "This is a novel teaching approach." Ariadne ignores him, unscrewing the bottle and throwing the cap across the room. "But I can't argue with the view." He purrs as she curls one arm around his head, clasping his jaw to feel the prickle of stubble growing out under her palm, raising him up to her chest.  
"Open wide." She teases his chin with her thumb until he parts his lips, the expectant smile transferring to his eyes as she leans over, wetting his waiting mouth with her tongue. He moves up to meet her, only her hand on his face stopping him from arching to her as she pulls back, the open bottle coming to her lips. She can see the thought on his face, that he's already figured out this game and he's far too ready to enjoy it, and it pushes her; she wants to surprise him rather than play into his mouth. 

So instead of sipping she puts her tongue out, lips spread as it touches her chin, raises the bottle and begins to pour. The spirit runs over her tongue in a burst of smoky sweetness, dribbling down her chin and into his mouth, across his lips and teeth as she keeps her eyes on his. He's surprised when the liquid hits his throat, he hitches and almost coughs as it burns down, but he keeps his lips open as it dribbles and splatters down.  
For herself, Ariadne can't believe how outrageously fucking sexy a prostrate and receptive Arthur is. His lashes lower as he drinks in erratic little swallows, the skin of his neck damp from the poor aim of her tongue as she pours, tastes and offers the liquid to him. Drops hit his cheeks and chin but he doesn't wipe them away, instead his mouth opens wider like a baby bird asking for more food, forcing her to keep dribbling it down into him. His body is shifting up and down by fractions, rubbing her skin through her dress that's getting a  translucent wet trail down it, mirroring the one forming at the throat of his shirt as he purrs again, this time a throaty grate of needy desperation that vibrates her fingers where they're resting on the column of his neck. 

She stops, licks her top lip, savouring the tang of the drink in her own mouth. "More?" She asks, barely moving her mouth, watching as his tongue darts out, laps the taste of bourbon and her off himself. "Please," He's hiding a smile as his mouth opens again, watching her tongue snake out and send a stream trickling down to him from her again. It's almost hypnotic, the way he's watching her with his soft, pink lips spread to accept her offering, so perhaps that's why she misses something extremely important right up until she sees his lips purse, his eyes alive with hilarity and a jet of unswallowed alcohol hits her in the face, soaking her cheeks, eyelids, forehead, chin, into her hair, down her dress.

The instinctive jerk back leaves her gasping as he starts to laugh again, the vibrations against her chest all too plain. "You..." she starts, rubbing at her face with one hand to clear her vision, "You fucking..." The curse gets lost as instead of finishing she leans over and thrusts her tongue in his mouth, forcing him to taste her all the way to his tonsils. He can't fight back from his submissive position, so he's left lying under her while she holds his head and plunders him as aggressively as she can. He grabs out, at her, at the bottle, his chest panting as she makes him submit. Only when she lets go, her smile tender as she looks into his face while he lies beautifully, perfectly still for a few seconds, does he make one final, desperate move against her and it comes with a sound that's almost a pained little whine, knocking her back so the bottle spills, tipping the contents all over her, him, the bed, the linens, everything as he pins her down.

There's no more talking. There really doesn't need to be. Instead thin fabric gives under rough hands; skin soaked with spirits meets mouths as he grabs the last few drops from the bottle, trickles them down her spread pussy, over her clit and tongues them off; as she runs her drink sticky palms over his cock and sucks away every hint of the taste until he's yanking on her damp hair; every part inflames with sensation, from knees to shoulder blades, from wrist bones to distal phalanges, nothing seems to get missed in their clumsy tongue baths.  
Teeth catch at skin and it becomes almost unbearable; Arthur groans when she bites imprints up his spine then rewards her with a set over the wings of her scapulae, forcing her down into the covers until she's mewling for him to keep going while he marks her.   
His fingers almost jam into her when forces his hand to her sex, her own grip on his cock already a firm fist that is pumping him as he bucks into her, but it's really only the foretaste. He lets her ride his fingers for maybe a minute before he pulls them back, the hand on her hips urging her forwards, open and down over where he's sprawled on the bed.

"Ride my cock," he hisses in an alcohol stained voice, suddenly verbal again. "Jesus, fuck, Ariadne. Fuck me. I need to be fucked. _Ruin me_."  He all but pleads as she leans over him, teasing him over her opening until he's making a breathy stream of noise about how _she wants his cock, doesn't she? he wants her pussy and he won't stop until he gets it and oh god, is she so wet she's dripping on him? he can't take it, he can't, he's got to..._ shutting off as she gives in, the litany of him appealing in such filthy language going straight between her legs until the ache is too much and she swallows him into her as he jacks up, hip to hip as they bend and twist around each other again. His hands won't leave her, he's got one on her breasts and the other glued to her ass as he groans and thrusts up to meet her, words fleeing in the face of something more primitive.  Her hands are square on his chest so she can scratch at his nipples, that and the fluid sound of them moving around each other, breathing together, him pulsing inside her with wet sucks (something which some part of her wants to be ashamed of but for all she is can't) are making her go molten as lava from the inside out.  
It should be so fucking filthy, to be getting so thoroughly used by him while he uses her, but it's somehow what the hot night, the drink, the tango have been leading to. Sweat is pouring off them both, the noises not just his now but hers too, skin hitting skin harder until Ariadne feels the wave rise through her toes, two fingers hit her clit and then it happens, cresting as she pulls back and crashes down, his body letting go a fraction after hers with a spatter of curses offered to the air.

\---

They both are hungover in the morning, so how they end up in a cool bath together is a miracle that Ariadne may never understand. She managed to down some painkillers and rip the ruined sheets off the bed while Arthur made coffee, but the sheer effort of walking to the bathroom to fill the tub...it was beyond her. So when he carefully led her in to the tiny, blissfully cool room, forced her in to the frigid blue water and put a cup of coffee in her hands, the flood of gratitude was huge and real, even more so when he tucked in behind her and let her lean back with a sigh.

"I am never drinking again." She swore as she sipped some of the thick brew.   
"I don't know," Arthur's hand cradled her hip, "I quite liked it. Especially when you did that thing with your tongue and then banged my brain out." He had a leer in his voice, which cut off as he swallowed a mouthful of coffee. "Yeah, we can do that again." He added as she pushed her hips back into his groin.  
"Fond of my talented tongue, are you?" She asked sweetly as he put his coffee down and began to kiss an idle trail up her neck.   
"Nope," He got to her earlobe and nuzzled into her sugar stiffened hair.  
"No?" Ariadne jerked her head round so she could look at him, his infuriating, maddening smile slapped over his face as he looked back.  
"No. I'm fond of all of you." He took her coffee away with neat fingers and kissed her, letting her taste the richness from his mouth. "I think I'll keep you. What do you say? Want to be my architect?"

She leant forward, pushing him back against the side of the tub and grinning back as hard as her hangover would let her, keeping her eyes firmly on his.

"That's fine, except just remember one thing: I may be _**your**_ architect, but you're **_my_** point man."

"I can live with that," was all she let him say before she stole back his lips and forced their partnership negotiations down a new and rather diverting avenue, both thanking god for cold water, cold coffee and extra strength analgesics.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> A/N's-  
> [Palermo](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palermo,_Buenos_Aires) and [San Telmo](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Telmo)are both barrios of Buenos Aries. San Telmo in particular is famous for it's tango cafes and street music. You're going to dance in the street? Here's where you hit the cobbles and tango away.
> 
> [The Caipirinha ](http://www.bbc.co.uk/musictv/brasilbrasil/caipirinha/) is actually the national cocktail of Brazil, but it's apparently damn nice in the heat, hence them getting swigged like water here. 
> 
> I do not own Jim Beam, even though I allude to it since it is the product getting splashed about in the video. Suing me is pointless, since I'm poor and have nothing to offer by a rather well used ipod, half a pack of smokes and some very exotic coffees. But you're welcome to try.


End file.
